Between The Drinks And Subtle Things
by Nirav
Summary: Her voice is soft and her words are subtle, but there's a level of fear edging against a measure of anger in her voice, and Rachel is slowly heating up in a not remotely pleasant way. A companion, of sorts, to Backwards Walk.


**Author's Note: **This goes along with the story Backwards Walk, so if you haven't read that, you won't be totally lost, but you're probably in for kind of an unpleasant surprise. All disclaimers from that fic apply here. The whole thing is based on Fun.'s _We Are Young_, which I have maintained since I first heard it in like October is anything but a happy song.

* * *

It happens like it always does.

This time, they're at a bar. It's Quinn's birthday, and Rachel's between shows and Quinn just finished grad school earlier this year, so they're at a bar on a Tuesday night with Rachel's friends and Quinn's, taking up half the room with laughter and outrageous gifts. Rachel is, as always, carefully avoiding Santana and her piercing glare and Brittany and her own disappointment, circulating around Quinn's side and her castmates and her friends from college constantly.

It's ten till midnight, now, and Rachel's stumbling out of the bathroom, laughing and shaking her head because her understudy and her co-star and sharing a line off of the grungy sink and she's too drunk to care. He's never missed a cue and the understudy is unnecessary, after all. The cocaine is just a side hobby.

She falters, halfway back into the bar, at the sight of a stranger sitting next to her girlfriend. Quinn's shoulders are bare, her skin glowing in the warmth of the overcrowded bar as she offers the man a half-smile and a few words. Rachel's teeth clench when she sees his hand gesture towards a faint line of scar tissue the traces down Quinn's back, skimming parallel to her shoulder blade and disappearing under the edge of her dress.

She uproots herself from the floor when he tilts his head and smiles kindly and leans closer to inspect the scar she'd given to Quinn so many months ago in a regretful lapse in control—it's _their_s, not his; he has no right, no reason, no justification for nosing his way into private business—and slides gracefully to a halt at Quinn's side. Her arms wraps around Quinn's waist possessively, her chin resting on Quinn's shoulder as she smiles sweetly at the surprised man.

She kisses Quinn's cheek and shifts back to let her lips brush against Quinn's ear before she speaks, just loud enough to be heard by the intruder. "Hey, baby," she says. "Sorry to disappear; I needed to get David into a cab."

"Hey!" Quinn says with a bright smile. She turns to kiss Rachel briefly and smiles even wider; she's drunk and it's obvious and a wave of disappointment rises in Rachel. Her hand waves towards the new guy. "This is Stephen. He was just asking me—"

"That's great," Rachel interrupts, not looking at him. "Do you want to get out of here? I have you real present at home."

"Sure," Quinn says easily. She flashes a demure smile towards Stephen and apologizes quickly— "It's my birthday and I've apparently got something great to go home to," she explains as Rachel tugs on her arm and throws a saccharine smile in his direction—before threading her fingers through Rachel's and kissing her on the cheek.

It's obvious, as she tugs Rachel impatiently out of the bar with warm fingers and dark eyes, what she believes her gift to be. Rachel, though, crosses her arms over her chest in the cab and sulks, staring darkly at the passing buildings. It only takes a block for Quinn to start asking what's wrong, and by the time the cab has rounded the corner to their building, she's almost pleading. Her voice is soft and her words are subtle, but there's a level of fear edging against a measure of anger in her voice, and Rachel is slowly heating up in a not remotely pleasant way.

The ride up to the top floor is slow and silent, as Quinn fumes and Rachel broods on opposite ends of the elevator car. They need to fix this, because Rachel is so _tired_ of hurting Quinn, because something is broken inside of them, because they bring out the worst in each other, but therapy is an acknowledgment that Rachel refuses to make and Quinn refuses to consider.

Rachel's shoulders are painfully tight by the time Quinn unlocks the door, the stiffness radiating painfully down her spine, and she shoves her way into the apartment and hurls her purse across the living room. It ricochets off of the wall with a dull slap as Rachel wheels around to face Quinn, whose has set her jaw and pulled herself up to her full height.

"What the hell?" Quinn snaps. Her voice is low and cool, her eyes a glittering, violent shade of almost-green, as she delicately sets her own purse down on the table in the foyer. "Do you want to explain to me what that was all about?"

"Do _I_ want to explain? I wasn't the one flirting with a random prick at a bar while my girlfriend was in the bathroom!"

"I wasn't flirting," Quinn says coldly. "He's _gay_ and he asked who made my dress."

"Bullshit," Rachel says. Her voice is shaking almost as much as her hands, the tremors spreading up towards her shoulders dangerously quickly.

"I wasn't flirting," Quinn repeats. "Contrary to your apparent belief, I'm completely capable of having a conversation without having ulterior motives."

"Right, of course you are," Rachel says with a sneer. "It's not like there's a ten year old in Cincinnati with your eyes and your boyfriend's best friend's smile or anything."

Quinn freezes at the words, her hands half out in front of her and her spine snapping straight. Dark satisfaction spreads through Rachel, a comforting relaxation, at the hurt flashing through Quinn's eyes.

"You're one to talk," Quinn says softly, moving forward. "You think I'm flirting because I talk to a gay man who likes my dress? Then let's talk about the fact that I've seen you perving on your costar on at least six different occasions. Does he remind you of Finn Hudson, Rachel? So tall and awkward and sweet, and God knows he's got a thing for you. What about when you went with your friends to that bachelor party because you just _had_ to be one of the guys "for your career's sake" and came back tasting like strawberry body glitter?

"I'm not the one with the wandering eye here," she sneers. "Why do you even bother? You think you can find anything better than what we have? We're fucked up, but at least I love you for more than your legs and your voice, _Rachel Berry_. You've said it yourself, that what we have is what fuels you to sing those pretty love songs on stage. Good luck finding someone else who will put up with your lectures and whining and _arrogance_ enough to offer you that."

Her hand is flying out faster than either of them can anticipate, open palm falling against Quinn's cheek with a brutal echoing crack. Blonde hair whips out behind her as her entire head pivots, a hand coming up to cover the bruise that's rising on a pronounced cheekbone, and she stumbles back. Rachel lurches forward, hands landing in a tight grip on Quinn's arms as she propels them backwards until Quinn's back slams against a wall.

"Stop it," Rachel half-sobs, gripping even tighter and shaking her, the sound of Quinn's back and skull impacting the plaster soaring right over her head. "Stop _saying _that."

The words jerk out of her, rough and pained and choked with tears, and Quinn is thrown back into the wall every single time until she's crying as well, wincing and cringing and starting to fall limp within Rachel's grip. Barely audible apologies are choking out of her until they finally reach Rachel's ears.

She leaps back, hands coming up to cover her mouth as she watches Quinn slide down to the floor, a crumpled mess of tears and bruises and smeared make up. "I'm sorry," she whispers around her hands, dropping down to her knees in front of Quinn's shaking form. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

Quinn doesn't flinch when Rachel moves to gather her up, and Rachel holds her carefully, murmuring apologies that Quinn echoes into the empty silence of the apartment. It had been so long—four months, two weeks, six days—and Rachel let herself fall into a false sense of security, because this time they had _promised. _That it was over, that Quinn would be kinder, that Rachel would learn to control her temper, that it was over.

The pained, shuddering breaths Quinn was taking and the broken inadequacy in Rachel's throat, though, spoke far too much to the contrary. As she sits there, crouched on the hard cherry floor in their living room and holding Quinn so tightly, Rachel promises that things will change. She'll toughen up, she'll stop reacting to Quinn's words, she'll go to any counselor Quinn wants.

Ten hours later, when she wakes up to Quinn carrying her to bed, she still means it. It's not until four hours later, as they make brunch and casually hip-check one another around the kitchen and wind up burning the pancakes because Quinn has Rachel hiked up on the granite countertop and a hand down her sweatpants as Rachel pants toward the ceiling and wraps her legs tighter around Quinn and thinks that nothing could ever feel so right, that she thinks that they'll be okay. Because they get each other, because Quinn brings her a perfectly-blended coffee before every show and Rachel spontaneously buys her flowers and gifts, because no one forgets birthday or anniversaries, because they've been together for eight years and have defied every expectation.

They're not even thirty yet, for God's sake. They're an epic love story still in the making, one that people will write songs about someday, one that bursts with passion. They can handle anything the world throws at them, even when it throws them at each other.


End file.
